Her eyes flash once — a spark, not fear. I like that. “As I’ll ever be,” she says.
I nod. I circle. Slowly. My bones creak faintly. My instincts itch. But I keep control.
“Your first lesson — stance,” I say. I drop into what I call the low crouch: legs wide, weight back, hands loose at my sides. The scent of earth and steel — damp soil, rustic woodchips, the distant tang of metal in the air — hits me.
“Mirror me,” I add.
She shifts. Feet plant. Knees bend. Back straighter than I expect. Her arms raise — natural, unrefined, but aligned. Shoulders square. Her gaze locks on mine.
Good. Not polished. Not graceful. But honest.
We begin — slow motions: strikes against padded bone-post dummies. Soft hits. Thuds muffled by cloth and padded bone. I guide her wrist, her elbow, smoothing the angles of her strikes. She moves fast. Faster than uniform girls I’ve seen scrapping ship decks. Her nails dig into rubber padding; the slap of leather against bone echoes. Her breath rasps. She tastes strong. Alive.
Then I shift gear — gloves off. Claws out, blunt edges wrapped to avoid tearing. I warn her: “These are just for training — do not test their edge.”
She sweats. The morning sun climbs higher. A jet-wind from below rattles the canvases overhead. Dry stone and frozen metal groans under pressure.
I lunge slow, mid-pace. She pivots — instinctive reflex alone — and elbow strikes forward. Hard. The bone-post cracking under pressure. I stumble, lose footing. The cold wind yanks at me. I fall back — boots skidding, armor harness sliding.
There’s a crack. Aftershock of surprise.
I land, shoulder to the ground, claws braced. My breath spasms — sharp, metallic. A nick across my lip bleeds, warm droplet sliding down bone-plated chin, hot against the dust of soil.
For a heartbeat — the world stills. The smell of blood, cold earth, sweat and rag cloth. My eyes narrow. The rippling pain in my shoulder.
Then I laugh. Low, rough. A sound torn between anger and delight.
She stands over me. Human, tense, weapons lowered. Eyes wide.
“You hit like a storm,” I rasp, voice rough. I feel warmth, longing, and fear — tangled deep, sharp as knives.
“I learned watching claws haunch above me,” she breathes. Strength and fear tangled. Soft and hard. Like bone and flesh.
I rise slowly. Each movement a promise. My bones crack, joints shift. I taste dust and adrenaline.
“You surprise me,” I admit, wiping blood off my lip on a rag from my belt. The motion sloppy, mortal — but real. “I might have underestimated you, human.”
She doesn’t smile. Not yet. But there’s fire in her eyes. Raw, tremulous, alive.
“Don’t,” she says quiet. “Underestimate.”
Her resolve, burning bright against cold morning air, pulls at something in me — bone, memory, promise. I sheathe my claws again. I wipe the crimson smear off my chin. The blood drills in my senses: iron, life, risk.
I reach out a hand — open. No threat. No claim. Just offer.
She hesitates. Her breathing shuddering. Then — slowly — she takes it. Her palm presses to mine. The dust from her skin coats my palm — grit, sweat, life.
I pull her close. Not hard. Gently. The wind from the cliff shifts. The smell of moss from past planting fields drifts faint, mingled with dust and metal.
“You fight dirty,” I say, voice soft — honest. Admiration, hunger, promise, all raw under bone and flesh.
She doesn’t answer. She breathes. Heavy, ragged. Alive.
I bring her forward. I point to the broken bone-post, cracked under her strike.
“It’ll stand again,” I say. “Stronger. Re-forged. Because you hit it — hard.”
She looks at the wood splinters. Then back at me. I see understanding, fear, and something fragile tethered to hope.
